Pucked Love (Pucked 6)

I close my eyes and relax into his warmth. I want to hold onto this protected feeling, but it’s terrifying. I crave this closeness with him, and when he’s sleeping it feels safer, because it’s unconscious on his part. I don’t have to face it the way I do in the waking hours.

I fall asleep wishing I could erase my past so I could be a better version of myself, one that didn’t have her innocence blown apart at the age of fourteen when I learned my life had been a fucked-up lie in a fucked-up world.

I wake up to Darren’s hard-on pressed against my hip and his lips at my ear asking to get inside me. There’s no chance I’m saying no to him, so we follow morning sex with room service while he gets ready for his pre-game skate, and I prepare to explore Toronto with the girls until game time.

He’s quiet, which isn’t unusual for Darren, but he’s tense and restless, even after the morning orgasm.

“You okay?” I smooth his shower-damp hair away from his face.

“Mmm.” He sits on the edge of the bed, pulls me between his legs, and tucks his head under my chin.

“That’s not really an answer,” I point out.

“Keep touching me, please.”

“We’re supposed to be downstairs in two minutes.”

“I’m not asking for sex, Charlene. I just need you close to me.”

“You’re going to be amazing tonight.”

His nose brushes my throat at his nod, and his fingers flex on my hips. His palms slide up my back, wrapping around my shoulders as he pulls me in tighter. He tips his head and his lips press against the side of my neck and part. The soft, wet touch of his tongue warms my body, and heat settles low in my stomach.

“Darren.” It’s warning twisted with desire.

He stands quickly, one palm curving around my nape. I tilt back as he looms over me, his gaze hot and needy.

“What—”

He cuts off the question with his mouth. His tongue pushes past my lips, and he finds his way under my shirt with his free hand. We need to be downstairs now. His team is leaving for their pre-game skate in minutes. We don’t have time for another round of morning sex, and I don’t want to be the reason he’s off his game tonight.

I put my palms on his chest with the intention of pushing, but his fingers dip into the waistband of my leggings—it’s pretty much all I packed for the weekend—and slide into my panties.

I gasp and grip his shirt when he finds the barbell piercing my hood and circles it roughly. He goes lower and thrusts two fingers inside me. Finding the magic spot, he curls fast and hard, making my knees buckle. His grip on the back of my neck tightens, preventing me from sinking to the floor.

He curls his fingers one more time before he withdraws to circle my clit again. It won’t take much to make me come. Just a bit more friction and I’ll go tumbling over the edge. But his hand disappears, and he wrenches his mouth away from mine.

I cry out at the loss of his touch and try to pull him back to me with his shirt. His name is a whine on my lips. My clit is throbbing, and my knees are weak.

“Please, Darren.” The high pitch should be embarrassing, but dear God, the muscles are already clenching with the promise of an orgasm, if only he would touch me again.

His hot, almost angry gaze stays locked on mine as he lifts his hand, fingers glistening. I groan as he slips them into his mouth, sucking loudly.

Somewhere to the right a phone buzzes with a message.

One corner of his mouth tips up in a sinister smile as his fingers slide out of his mouth. He licks between the webbing, and my eyes roll up. I attempt to shove my own hand down my pants to finish what he started.

“No,” he barks and grabs both my wrists. He spins me around until my knees hit the back of the bed and I drop to my ass. He straddles my legs, clamping them together as he hovers over me once again. “How do you feel right now, Charlene?”

The sound that comes out of me is somewhere between a whimper and a growl.

“That’s not an answer, little firefly.”

I fight against his hold on my wrists and swivel my hips.

He dips down until his face is an inch from mine. “Are you on the edge?”

“Yes.”

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“No?” He quirks a brow.

“Yes!” This time it’s a moan.

“Restless? Needy? Wanting? Desperate?”

I nod fervently. “All of those things.”

“This is how I feel every time I’m away from you.”

His eyes stay on mine, unblinking as he waits for me to process what he’s just admitted. We don’t talk feelings, and yet here he is, telling me more in these few words and actions than he has in the past two years.